Hannah froze in the doorway.
“We’ll be glad to get the trunk in,” Win assured them.
He slipped his arm around Hannah’s waist and urged her outside, where the wind was coming in huge gusts now. She had plenty of energy to jump up and into the truck bed, ahead of him.
Indeed, the name Harling was embossed in scarred brass lettering across the front of the trunk.
“The Harling Collection, I presume,” he said.
Her luminous eyes fastened on him. “It must have been out at the old lighthouse on the other side of Marsh Point. It’s been abandoned since 1900. I’ve never been out there because Cousin Thackeray insisted it wasn’t safe.”
Win decided not to mention the obvious: Uncle Jonathan was right. A Marsh had stolen the Harling family papers, just as Anne Harling had claimed in her diary of long ago.
“You know what’s going to happen if we leave this thing in the kitchen,” he said.
“Preston Fowler’s in jail. He’s no threat.”
“Hannah, think about those two old men in there. Once each thinks the other’s asleep, they’re going to sneak downstairs and skim off whatever they don’t want the other to see.”
“Cousin Thackeray wouldn’t—” She stopped herself, stared at the trunk, then said, “Yes, that’s exactly what he’d do.”
“And what do you think Uncle Jonathan was making such a big deal about getting to bed for? He never turns in before midnight. It’s not even ten o’clock.”
Hannah pursed her lips. “They can’t be trusted with history.”
So, they each grabbed an end and lifted the trunk out of the truck. After that Win offered to carry it himself, but Hannah was having none of that. He grinned. “Don’t trust me, do you?”
She held tight to her end of the trunk. “I do.”
“But I’m a Harling.”
“You can’t help that. Look, it’s not far to the cottage.”
“Doesn’t this hurt your wrist?”
“A little.”
He could see in her expression that it hurt a lot. “Hannah, let go.”
For a few seconds she did nothing except stare at the brilliant night sky. Then she looked at him, nodded and let go. Win carried the trunk into her kitchen and set it down next to his overnight bag.
“You were the one who was bluffing,” Hannah said accusingly, pointing at the bag.
“Me?”
“You never had any intention of leaving tonight.”
“If you asked me to...”
“If I made you.”
“I’m not a cad. If you didn’t want me around, I’d have gone.”
“Ha!”
He straightened, breathing hard...from carrying the heavy trunk...from watching her prance ahead of him. From wanting her. “I was just hoping I could call your bluff before you called mine.”
“Well, you didn’t succeed.”
“Yes, I did.”
“How so?”
He picked up his bag. “Say the word, Hannah.” His eyes held hers. “Right now. Tell me to leave and I’ll leave. No arguments. Nothing. I’ll go.”
“Your uncle won’t leave without seeing the Harling Collection.”
“This is between us. Just you and me, Hannah. I’ll deal with Uncle Jonathan if I have to. What’s it going to be?”
She hesitated, staring at the floor, at anything but him. For an instant, Win wondered if he’d guessed wrong, if having him around was more than she could tolerate.
“You’re making excuses,” he said, “so I can stay.”
Then she looked at him and grinned, the devil in her eye. “You noticed?” She glided toward him, confident. “You can stay, Win Harling, under one condition: I’m not going to let you sneak into the kitchen and have at that trunk before I do.”
“How do you propose to stop me?”
“You know the saying: An Ounce of Prevention Is Worth a Pound of Cure.” She slid her arms around him. “I propose that the only way for you to get to the trunk tonight is through me.”
“Physically?”
She smiled. “Physically.”
* * *
“TELL ME IF I HURT YOU,” Win whispered, pulling her on top of him.
“You’re not hurting...not at all.”
Because of the thrashing she had received from Preston Fowler, Win was being gentle and cautious with his caresses, not that it was necessary. Hannah wanted him as much as she ever had. He stroked the curve of her hip, and she felt his maleness alive between them. The earlier fears had been dissipated by her desire for him, and his for her.
They kissed, a long, slow, delicious kiss that penetrated to her soul.
“I guess,” she said teasingly, “old Cotton Harling would have us both hanged.”
Win laughed softly, running his fingers through her hair, his eyes locked with hers. “I’m sure he could think of a number of offenses. Do you feel guilty?”
“Nope. You?”
He answered by lifting her gently, and she knew what he wanted. Slowly, erotically, she brought him inside her.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured close to her, “not ever.”
Then he inhaled, letting her set the pace. She did so eagerly, believing once more in her capacity to confront the future, however different it might be from the one she’d imagined for herself only a few weeks before.
* * *
DESPITE HER BEST efforts to avoid the predicament, Hannah had fallen asleep, her body mercilessly intertwined with Win’s. It had been that kind of night. She woke with the first light of dawn, impatiently taking a minute to plan her escape.
Finally, carefully lifting his arm from her waist, she peeled her top half free and raised herself upon one elbow. He looked so innocent in sleep. But he was a competent man, strong-willed, caring, not one to cross. Locking the doors and pulling the shades and curtains had been his idea; he hadn’t trusted their two elderly neighbors not to barge in on them.
She contemplated her next move. Somehow she had to extricate the lower half of her body. How had she got into such a position?
Then she remembered.
Oh, she remembered.
In the middle of the night she had stirred in the darkness, half-asleep, the nightmare still swirling around her...Preston Fowler on top of her...Cousin Thackeray in danger. She had cried out, and Win had been there, wide-awake, pushing back the shadows, he’d said, of his own nightmare. They’d clung to each other and fallen asleep that way.
How could she go back to sleeping alone? An occasional night or two, perhaps. But not permanently. Not because she had been unhappy before she met and fell in love with J. Winthrop Harling. But because she had met him and fallen in love with him.
Still, there were his legs and other things between her and freedom.
She bent down and listened to his steady breathing; he was definitely asleep. Slowly, biting down now on her lower lip, she eased her left leg free, holding her breath when he flopped over and lay on his stomach. His hair brushed against her breasts. She almost groaned, wanting him all over again.
Exhaling silently, she yanked out her right leg in one quick movement. It was the only way to go. Given its delicate position, anything else would have just started things up again and then she’d have been in a mess.
She was free.
On the wrong side of the bed.
With her spectacular view of the water and solitary sleeping habits, she had pushed her bed against the wall, so that she could just open her eyes and see out the window. It was almost like sleeping outside. Now, however, she was on the wall side of the bed.
Which meant crawling over her sleeping partner.
There’d be hell to pay if he caught her.
But
how could she ever explain to Cousin Thackeray that she’d spent the night making love to a Harling, instead of doing her damnedest to get the first look at the Harling Collection? If there was anything in it that would cause him to lose Marsh Point, she owed it to him to find it and keep it out of Harling hands. Her biography of Priscilla Marsh was only a secondary concern.
She raised herself and carefully lifted one knee over Win’s hips, his narrowest point. Quickly she lowered one hand to his side of the bed, all the while lifting her other knee. It was a tricky maneuver. She had to roll onto her side without rocking the bed and waking him up.
She kept on rolling, right out of bed, grabbed her robe and tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen.
The trunk was gone.
Gone!
“That sneaky old goat! Wait until Cousin Thackeray finds out. He’ll...”
“He’ll what?” Win asked languidly. He was leaning against the door frame behind her.
She whirled around. “Well, good morning. I was awake and thought I’d make coffee....”
“Then why the big production to get out of bed?”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I’ll bet the hell you didn’t.”
“Now, Win, I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t blame you....”
“Because I’m right.”
“That’s not the point. The point is, where’s the damned Harling Collection?”
He came into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. She had already noticed he hadn’t bothered with a robe or anything else, which made his presence even more distracting.
“Aren’t you cold?” she demanded.
He smiled. “On the contrary.”
Evidence to that fact was becoming increasingly apparent. Then Hannah realized she hadn’t bothered tying her robe and it was hanging open, revealing everything. “The Harling Collection!” she cried hoarsely. “Where is it?”
“On its way to Boston.”
“Boston! Win Harling, you double-crossing bastard! You took advantage of me so I’d sleep like the dead and you and that old goat of an uncle of yours could pull a fast one on us Marshes and—”
“And do you want the real story, or do you want to rant and rave for a while?”
She shut her mouth and tied her robe. Tightly. So, there, she thought.
Win smiled faintly. “I carted the trunk back to your cousin’s truck while you were sound asleep. He and Uncle Jonathan promised to leave at the crack of dawn—which it is—to take it to the Athenaeum, where it can be catalogued by qualified, neutral historians.”
“I’m a qualified historian!”
“You’re not neutral.”
No, she thought, I’m not. It was a point she knew she needed to concede. An objective biography of Priscilla Marsh had never really been possible for her, either.
“They both agreed?” she asked.
“Not without a hell of a lot of arguing.”
Hannah sighed. “Will wonders never cease? Cousin Thackeray must not be too worried about the collection corroborating the Harling claim to Marsh Point.”
“No, he’s not.”
“You sound awfully confident.”
“I am.” And he nodded toward a large, manila envelope on her kitchen table. “Open it.”
She did so, her fingers trembling. Inside were several sheets of yellowed, near-crumbling paper.
“It’s tough going,” Win explained, “but basically it lays out the details of how the Marshes managed to hoodwink the Harlings out of Marsh Point. I showed it to your cousin before he left and promised I would keep it separate from the collection. You know what he said?”
“Win...”
“He said, ‘What the devil! You know damned well you Harlings used your power and influence to get your hands on Marsh Point, just when we were set to make our purchase.’ He claims whatever the Marshes did, it was not without justification. He also said—and again I quote—‘We won’t sort out the legal mess until after I’m dead and then Hannah will have Marsh Point and you can fight her for it.’ And then he grinned—you know that grin of his—and suggested it’d be a hell of a fight.” Win laughed. “He’s an old cuss, Hannah. He wasn’t worried one bit about those papers. You know why?”
She shook her head.
He came to her and undid the tie on her robe, letting it fall open before he slipped his arms around her waist. His mouth descended to hers and he kissed her briefly, flicking his tongue against hers. “Because he knows the Marsh and Harling feud ends with us. He knows we’re going to be together forever.” Win lifted her to his waist, while she held onto his shoulders and let him ease her onto him, welcoming his heat. He kissed her hair, whispering, “And so do I.”
“Win...”
“Just say it, Hannah.”
“Forever.”
* * *
A MONTH LATER the Marshes and the Harlings made headlines once more.
It seemed, the newspaper reported, that the newly recovered Harling Collection included not only a rare copy of the Declaration of Independence worth over a million dollars, but an order signed by Judge Cotton Harling, exonerating Priscilla Marsh of the charges against her. She had, the judge said he’d come to realize, only been teaching young Boston ladies traditional herbal remedies, not witchcraft. But due to some unexplained mix-up, the order had come too late to save the doomed, fair-haired Bostonian.
The copy of the Declaration of Independence, it seemed, had been authenticated, its value assured. Its ownership, however, was in dispute. Jonathan Harling claimed it belonged to his family. Thackeray Marsh claimed it belonged to his. Neither would budge.
Reached for comment, Hannah Marsh, the newly appointed, part-time director of the New England Athenaeum—Preston Fowler was awaiting trial—had suggested the two elderly Harvard-trained historians sign a joint declaration donating the document to the prestigious institution.
Both men had replied, in effect, “In a pig’s eye.”
J. Winthrop Harling had had no comment, except to say he was planning to whisk Hannah Marsh away on a honeymoon, to a part of the world where they were not likely to bump into anything remotely historical.
Taking a break from her biography of Priscilla, Hannah read the entertaining article aloud to Win while he stripped wallpaper from the dining room of the Harling House on Beacon Hill. His parents were driving up next weekend from New York for a visit. Hannah was anxious to meet them. She and Win had invited Cousin Thackeray down for dinner, but he’d said that’d be too many Harlings in one room for him. Old prejudices died hard.
“Did you say ‘historical’ in a scathing tone?” she asked her husband.
“As scathing as I could manage.”
She grinned at him. Marsh Point and Beacon Hill. Maine and Boston. A Marsh and a Harling. “It’s a good thing we love each other, isn’t it?”
He smiled. “A very good thing.”
* * * * *
His Secret Agenda
Beth Andrews
Dear Reader,
I’m a small-town girl. I’ve lived my entire life in my hometown in northwestern Pennsylvania surrounded by rolling hills, lush woods and familiar faces. It’s where I grew from a child to a teenager to an adult. Where I had my first kiss, first love and first heartbreak. My children attend the same high school I graduated from, were baptized in the same church where I was married and spend at least one day a week with their grandparents and various aunts, uncles and cousins. Every important memory, every life-changing event I’ve ever had happened right here—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Serenity Springs, the setting for His Secret Agenda, may be fictional, but everything about this quaint tourist town is based on all I know and love about my own hometown—the warm and frie
ndly people, the security of knowing your neighbors, the joy of having family close by. My heroine, Allie Martin, returns to Serenity Springs when she gives up her promising career as an attorney. She needs a place where she can find peace, acceptance and forgiveness for her greatest mistake.
Or maybe she just needs a place to hide.
If you enjoy His Secret Agenda, I hope you’ll check out the other books in my Serenity Springs series, Not Without Her Family, A Not-So-Perfect Past and Do You Take This Cop?
Happy reading,
Beth Andrews
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
DEAN GARRET HAD TWO WORDS to describe the town of Serenity Springs, New York.
Freaking cold.
And to think just last week he’d been complaining about the weather in downtown Manhattan. Guess mid-February wasn’t the best time to head north into the Adirondack Mountains.
Lesson learned.
The brisk wind blew through his coat—the coat that had kept him plenty warm during the past three winters in Dallas—and pricked his skin like shards of ice. Snow stung his cheeks and collected on his eyelashes as he made his way across the parking lot to The Summit bar.
When he’d arrived yesterday he’d thought the snow was sort of cool. The way it covered every available surface, all pristine white and fluffy, made the town look like a postcard. Or one of those snow globes his aunt Rita collected.
But still, enough was enough already. How did people live with this all winter?
Thank God he had no plans to stay in town longer than a few weeks. That is, if all went according to plan.
He opened the door, stepped inside the warm building and took off his Stetson, hitting it against his thigh to dislodge the snow. He scanned the bar, noting the exits, plus a short hallway and swinging doors that must lead to the kitchen. A guy with a shock of wiry gray hair nursed a beer at the end of the bar. A couple of college-age kids were shooting pool, while three men in suits sat at a table by the jukebox, stretching their lunch hour into two. Or three.
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