by Stephy Smith
“I’m a spy,” they said at the same time.
Gwen lifted an eyebrow and moved to walk past him. “Well, you aren’t a very good one.”
Amused, Hunter threw out his foot, tipped her over it, sending her sprawling into his arms. He held her hands high above her head as he leaned in close to her face. “Darling, I’m the best.”
Her chest heaved with exertion. “Impossible. The Wolf is the best, everyone knows that. And you cannot possibly be him.”
“Alright.” Perhaps he could escape without giving her his identity, without compromising himself or her. With a sigh, he dropped her to the floor and marched over the wash basin to clean the blood from his neck. “And your name?”
“Gwen.”
Hunter laughed, bracing a hand on either side of the basin as he leaned forward, allowing the water droplets to splash into the bowl. “Not your real name, love. The one you go by when you’re out spreading your legs for God and country.”
With a scream, she lunged for him, as expected, for no man could insult a woman in that way and not expect some sort of bloodshed. Patiently, he waited until she was seconds away from removing his head. Then he jolted to the side, elbowed her in the back, causing her to curse and stumble.
She kicked him hard in the stomach as she went down, then flipped onto her back and pulled his body toward hers, again holding the knife to his neck. Blast, and he had just cleaned himself up. Well, now they were just wasting time.
“Your name, if you don’t mind,” Hunter ground out through clenched teeth. It was deuced hard, trying to keep his arousal in check. The blasted woman had drawn him to his knees twice within ten minutes, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want her.
A surge of pride stormed her eyes, making them widen for just a second before indifference returned. “Red, I go by Red.”
Hunter was silent.
Quite a bad habit to suddenly develop.
He cleared his throat. “As in the very Red who was able to infiltrate the highest ranks of Napoleon’s trusted elite and gain secrets that even the Wolf could not obtain, and all within the first month of employ?”
“The very one.”
“I don’t believe you.” But truly, he did. Mainly because he was ready to spill his entire life story based solely on the fact that she was the only woman who had ever used violence on him.
He found it wildly arousing.
“It is more believable than you being the Wolf.” Her laugh echoed within the room. Pride taking another huge blow, he almost blurted out his identity for a second time, but thought better of it. After all, if she truly did not know him, then that would mean it would be reasonable for him to experiment. After all, there was enough sexual tension in that room to make a vicar sin.
“Then I guess I truly am the worst spy,” he purred into her ear, minding the steel flexing against his neck. “After all, you were the one who noticed the men on the ship as well as the men in the inn. You truly must be the notorious Red. An honor, I assure you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she said breathlessly as her grip on the knife loosened. Beginner’s mistake, for it was all the chance he was going to get.
Seduction, for Hunter, had always been simple, a strategic battle plan of sorts. Make her desire him, mirror that desire, compliment, touch, please, and finally leave. After all, he was always starving after such an encounter, and it was always best to keep all seductions and encounters under twelve hours.
Always.
His hand moved to her neck. Closing his eyes he breathed in the scent of her skin. A spicy mix of cinnamon and honey. His thumb rubbed her bottom lip. A pink tongue snuck out and licked playfully at his thumb. Gwen’s eyes darkened.
And he had her.
Precisely where he and other parts of his anatomy wanted her.
On her back.
And at his mercy.
She didn’t even see the pistol slip out of his pocket, for he had already knocked her cold by the time her eyes widened in realization.
He lifted her onto the bed and cursed. “Worst spy in the history of the Crown? I think not.” She would wake up within the hour, cursing him to perdition, but he would be long gone, never to see her again.
But before he left, he had a little spying to do. Spying that even Red couldn’t accomplish without getting her pretty little self shot.
Without another thought to the woman lying in the bed, Hunter left to sneak into the Englishmen’s rooms. After handing the innkeeper some blunt, he was extremely helpful in giving Hunter the information he needed as to the rooms rented to the men.
After five minutes of picking the lock, he was finally able to make it into the first room. Nothing. It was as if the gentleman hadn’t brought a thing with him on the trip.
He tried the next three.
All empty.
Cursing, he made his way down the stairs. The chairs where the gentlemen had been sitting were empty. Money left on the table.
They’d left. The inn had been a front.
Hunter cursed again and made his way to the front door, only to see it burst open. A Norse-looking fellow barged in, demanding to know where a certain English girl named Gwen had disappeared to. If Hunter hadn’t been so tired after fighting off the wench, he’d have the good sense to be alarmed that an Englishman was boldly yelling such incriminating things about the girl.
“How dare that strong-willed defiant child leave home!” the duke screamed, “Selfish, selfish woman!”
Hunter lifted a brow at the man’s words, her reputation truly was well and ruined by now.
Either she was his wife or a family member. Judging by the wild look in the man’s eyes, Hunter assumed she must be his sister. For any man with even an ounce of pride would not announce to perfect strangers that he was not man enough to keep his wife happy in his bedroom.
The man continued to yell at the innkeeper. The money Hunter had given the innkeeper had been sufficient it seemed, considering he had to be lying through his teeth.
Poor sod, he was going to get his ears boxed if Hunter didn’t intervene.
With a quick shake of his head, his hair fell wildly about his face. He limped heavily toward the Englishman and winced. Cursing as if he was in pain from a war injury but too foxed to realize why. A large black coat was left on a nearby chair, and he quickly put it over his shoulders. Hunter stopped in front of the Englishman and scowled. “Gwen, you say?”
His words were purposefully slurred.
“Yes,” the man clipped. His eyes narrowed fiercely as he clenched his teeth together.
“I believe she’s already been found, just up there in that room.” Hunter pointed to where he had left her, but made sure to keep his head low as to not give away his identity. “Some spy was boasting about how he rescued her from certain ruin, as well as getting herself shot! Can you believe she was spouting out nonsense that some Beast had stolen her sister? Truthfully, if this very capable and well known — and let's not forget infamous — spy, the Wolf, hadn't stumbled across her, she may have very well been killed, or worse ruined, if you get my meaning.” Blazes, he forgot to slur. Well, that’s what pride did to a man. He winced and toppled to the side, then stole a glance at the man.
The man’s gaze turned murderous. Clearly he got the innuendo.
“My thanks,” he finally said, reaching into his pocket.
“No payment necessary. I shall truly sleep better this very night, knowing such a diamond of the first water is safe in her…” Hunter blinked innocently. “I’m sorry, old fellow, who did you say you were? What kind of man would I be if I let some fluffy-looking fancy person take advantage of the poor lass?”
“Montmouth.”
Blast. If she was his charge, Hunter had half a mind to feel sorry for him. The savage duke had just recently been married to Rosalind Hartwell, who was in fact Gwen and Isabelle’s sister. The only way he was even privy to such information was because he had spent the better part of the past two mont
hs with the Beast of Russia, whose wife was none other than Isabelle Hartwell. It was rumored that their family was quite mad, or at least used to be. Some sort of curse had befallen them all. But the rumors had been quickly laid to rest after Montmouth married Lady Rosalind. Though Hunter hadn’t found it good timing that his best friend Dominique Maksylov, the Beast, had chosen that opportune time to pay off the family and take Isabelle for his own. The entire sordid tale of that family was one fit for the storybooks or at least a Greek play.
He shook his head. These were the type of theatrics Hunter wanted no part of. Madness? Stealing women? Spies who believed they could do the job of a man? He shuddered and looked at the duke again. “I believe, your grace, that you will find her perfectly unharmed, though quite ruined. Too fancy of a piece and all that. Besides, who knows if she’s been alone this whole time or… touched.”
Montmouth’s gaze narrowed before he bowed his head and lifted his hand to his brow answering gruffly, “I know.”
Nodding his thanks, the behemoth of a duke walked to the stairs, and for the second time that day Hunter had an aggravating feeling wash over him, starting from his head and lingering there for a good few seconds before traveling all the way down to his toes.
It was Gwen’s fault. And he needed to forget her as soon as possible. Desperate times, he thought as he went in search of the wench from earlier. Perhaps she had more ale?
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