She stiffened and leaned forward in her chair, poised to flee. “Georgina Wilcox.”
He gave no outward reaction to her admission. “I am Adam Markham.”
Her shoulders relaxed as she realized he did not know who she was. Guilt niggled at her. She reminded herself she was not to blame for Father’s crimes, but the thought rang hollow in her heart.
“I am sorry to meet you under such circumstances, Mr. Markham.” Or really under any circumstances. There was no good in the world in which she dwelled.
He studied her intently and Georgina shifted in her seat. His gaze set a small flame alight in her bosom. The instinct for survival warred with her empathy. Except there was something more—some inexplicable feeling she didn’t understand nor care to analyze. No good could come in any kind of connection with the men taken as prisoners here. She reached for his bindings then stopped. If she were ever to help this man, she’d have to plan carefully. After all she’d learned the perils in thwarting Father and Jamie’s plans long ago.
The stranger’s beautiful lips turned down. “So, tell me. What manner of woman would leave me tied here at the mercy of those bastards—” As if sickened by the mere sight of her, he jerked his gaze away.
She leaned forward. “If I free you, there is a guard outside who will shoot you dead. If that isn’t enough, I will pay the price for your death. A price with my own flesh.” Georgina let the weight of this dark truth sink in.
Silence reigned between them. They sat in uneasy silence until his stomach gave a rebellious rumble reminding her of why she’d come above stairs. Eager to give her fingers something to do, she reached for a sliver of apple and held it to his lips.
Something in his gaze softened. “Are you Eve?”
She angled her head. “Georgina.”
A sharp bark of laughter burst from his chest. The explosion of mirth seemed to rob him of breath. He coughed in obvious pain. “Christ, either you’re an excellent actress or the most naïve woman I’ve ever met.”
“Oh.” Heat flooded her cheeks. “That Eve. Which, of course, makes you Adam.”
“Adam and Eve,” he murmured. He cast an almost empty gaze around the room. “And it would appear we’ve both been cast into hell.”
Georgina’s gut clenched at the all-too-familiar sentiment uttered by this man, Adam Markham. She cleared her throat. “Do you want the apple or not?” She waved it in his direction.
His lips parted, displaying an even row of pearl-white teeth. Georgina hesitated a moment, feeling a bit like a rabbit feeding a wolf, then slipped the fruit into his mouth.
He bit into the succulent fruit, all the while watching her as if he could divine her secret yearnings. When he opened his mouth again, she brought another piece of the apple to his lips.
“Why are you here?” he asked, after he finished his next bite.
Their gazes caught and held. “I have no choice.”
Adam Markham’s flinty stare threatened to bore through her. “They have you captive as well?”
In a way, she’d been trapped from the moment of her birth. “I am a victim of my circumstances, Mr. Markham.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You are a servant.”
At his erroneous assumption, she stilled. She should tell him the truth. Confess who she was. What does it matter? a niggling voice whispered at the edge of her mind. It is your father who is hell bent on an Irish revolution—not you. “Why are you here?” She turned his question around on him, uncomfortable with his assumption.
“I, too, am a victim of my circumstances.” A veil fell across his eyes, indicating he intended to say nothing further.
Georgina glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. “I should go.” She stood.
He opened his mouth to speak. She had the distinct impression he wanted her to stay but she shoved the silly thought aside. Why should he desire her company?
Georgina reached for his bindings but the memory of his hand around her neck froze her mid-motion. She rubbed the sensitive skin where that possessive touch—firm but gentle—lingered. No one had ever handled her with even a modicum of tenderness. Reason had taught her to loathe such weakness. After all, compassion had brought her nothing but trouble.
His gaze went to her neck. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ve never mistreated a woman.” Until now.
Considering her own experience with men and his earlier violent outburst, she didn’t put much faith in his statement. Nonetheless, Adam Markham was desperate, an emotion she knew well. She waved off his apology. “You’re not the first to…put me in my place.” A niggling whisper of a dream flitted through her mind. In a different life she would have been the beloved daughter of a loving couple. She may even have a doting suitor. How different might her life have been if she’d been born a daughter to loyal British subjects? Georgina brushed back a loose strand of hair. “I wish there was something I could do to help you, but I can’t.” At least not now.
“You can free me.” He was nothing if not persistent.
“I already said I can’t.”
His eyes ran a path over her face, but he said nothing.
Georgina bound his hands and hurried to leave before her father came home.
“Miss Wilcox?”
She paused.
“Thank you,” he said in hushed undertones.
With a nod, she took her leave and made her way to the kitchen, where she gathered potatoes for the evening meal. Self-preservation dictated she forget Adam Markham. Yet her heart wouldn’t allow her to do any such thing. All the while she prepared dinner, the visage of the handsome stranger danced through her mind.
He’d mistaken her for a servant.
Her skin tingled with the remembrance of his silken fingertips caressing her rapidly beating pulse.
If he’d wanted to strangle her before, what would he do if he learned she was really his captor’s daughter?
In his meeting with Napoleon, Robert Emmet was informed the British have in their employ an agent who is assisting France. This person has pledged to also help the United Irishmen.
Signed,
A Loyal British Subject
Chapter 2
Adam Markham had been betrayed. For seven years, he’d faithfully served the Home Office as a spy with The Brethren of the Lords. He’d uncovered the identities of Irish radicals trying to separate from England, had uncovered plots against the Crown, and seduced the secrets out of nefarious women all over the Continent.
None of his accomplishments mattered when coupled with his one great failure—the lapse in judgment that had earned him this month-long descent in the pit of hell.
Adam stared blankly at the cheerful floral curtains of his prison, at the sun’s rays raining false brightness through the window.
The night Fox and Hunter had taken him prisoner, he’d been drugged. That much was clear. Adam had been in his townhouse, meeting with four other members of The Brethren, two of whom had been strangers. Someone must have slipped something into his glass of wine.
Who had handed him over to Fox? Fury licked at his insides, and he fed that anger because it staved off the mind-numbing fear. With a roar, he yanked his arms. The rope dug into his skin, rubbing the flesh raw until blood seeped down his wrists. Adam unleashed a string of black curses against his captors.
Adam comforted himself with the image of the day he would eventually be freed. He would use his far-reaching influence to see Fox and Hunter were made to pay. He would destroy his captors and all those who’d betrayed him. Their immediate death would be too easy. He would see that they suffered a traitor’s public death so that any and all linked to them would learn the perils of interfering with The Brethren. Still, it wasn’t only the thirst for revenge that kept him alive. Not anymore. Now there was also the young maid, Georgina.
As if his unspoken thoughts had summoned her, she appeared in the doorway. Georgina froze at the entrance and tipped her chin back a notch. A fiery light sparkle
d in her chocolate brown eyes. She put him in mind of a skittish cat.
He couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be like if she lived in another house, in different circumstances. A cheery girl no doubt, with rose in her full cheeks, and a soft, sweet laugh that bubbled past her generous, bow-shaped lips. The thought made his heart twinge.
She carried a tray of food, on top of which rested a leather volume. “They’ve gone out,” she murmured, the husky tone washing over him, as she closed the door behind her.
He remained silent, continuing to study her. The thick, dark waves of her hair always somehow managed to escape the knot at the base of her neck. Her slim figure was testament to the endless work she did in Fox’s home. But for the bountiful breasts and generous curve of her hips, the maid’s efforts had left her borderline gaunt. Still, there was something compelling about her.
Mayhap it was the determined sparkle in the brown of her eyes? Or the rigid set to her small shoulders that would have made a cavalry officer proud.
He’d tried to sort out her role in the household. With her regal carriage and cultured voice, she may as well have been any lady in a London drawing room. Her haggard figure and drab gown told a different tale. What had happened to bring her here?
As she did each time she visited, she released one of his bindings then took a quick step away from him. His gut churned with guilt as he thought back to the day he’d wrapped his fingers around her neck. Captivity did horrible things to a man. It turned gentlemen into monsters.
He eyed the bowl of chicken pottage. It was the third day in a row she’d prepared a meal of chicken. “Chicken, again.”
She frowned. “You always eat the chicken.”
“I eat all the food,” he pointed out. “I am a prisoner.”
“But you eat it faster, so I thought you preferred chicken and—” She clamped her lips shut. “I’ll make something different next time.”
As he shoveled another bite of broth into his mouth, he studied her. The quality linen dress she wore seemed more fitting of a lady than a household maid. He watched her fist and un-fist the silvery gray fabric of her skirts. Something seemed amiss, yet he could not put his finger on it.
“Is there anything I can bring you as a diversion?”
Her quiet question snapped him back to the moment.
Was that even possible?
“I draw.”
She tipped her head. “Draw?”
He waved his free hand. “Yes, sketch. People. Buildings. I like to sketch.”
“I’ve never known an artist,” she mused aloud.
Adam chuckled, the sound rusty from ill-use. “I’d hardly consider myself an artist. My tutor once gave me a copy of Francois Boucher’s work. I decided to try my hand at drawing.” He didn’t know why he’d disclosed such an intimate detail to her. Perhaps it simply stemmed from the bleak loneliness of his captivity.
When he said nothing else on the matter, Georgina gave a slow nod and rose. He called out to her, and she stopped at the threshold of the doorway.
“Thank you. You were correct. I prefer chicken.”
She angled her head over her shoulder and a small smile turned the corners of her lips.
The next day she appeared with a dish of boiled chicken in a white spinach sauce and an empty sketchpad. She hovered uncertainly at his shoulder. His fingers flexed for the charcoal and parchment.
She reached for his right hand then froze. “Which hand do you use to sketch?”
“My left.”
Without another word, she released his left hand and opened the sketchpad.
He eyed the page. A thrill of excitement coursed through him as it always did when presented with a blank sheet. He trailed the callused tip of a finger on the parchment. An image of Grace, Viscount Camden’s elegant daughter—her wide, beaming smile, her violet eyes—flitted through his mind, and he froze. He didn’t want to draw her face. He didn’t want to bring her here into this bleak, violent world. He preferred her lakeside in the green pastures of Leeds where he’d last seen her.
In the end, the desire to see her one more time, even if it was just as a charcoal rendering in a sketchpad, consumed him. His fingers danced over the page, reacquainting him with the feel of a pen in his hand, the feeling of old lovers meeting. Grace took shape. The riotous crown of tight curls dark on the page but golden blonde in his mind gave him pause. A surge of pain climbed up his throat, and nearly strangled him.
“Are you all right?”
Adam blinked then forced himself to release a breath. “Fine.” His fingers resumed their efforts.
Georgina sat beside him for the two hours he sketched. When at last he finished, he studied the face that filled the parchment. Beautiful Grace. He’d last seen her once upon a lifetime ago.
“She is beautiful,” Georgina’s reverent whisper cut into his musings.
His throat moved up and down. “She is.”
“Who is she?” He ignored the slight catch in Georgina’s voice, fixing his gaze on the page with Grace’s image on it.
To speak of Grace in this den of traitors would be a sacrilege to Grace’s purity and goodness. Oh God, what must she think? He’d promised to return for her and yet, between his last mission and his captivity, it had been nearly six months since he’d seen her last.
“She’s just a lady,” he lied. He snapped the folio closed, ending any further questions about Grace Blakely.
“Is she your wife?”
A spasm wrenched his heart. He tried to conceal the flash of pain, but the woman was perceptive.
“She is your wife,” she concluded.
“She is not my wife.” Mayhap in another life, at a different time.
Georgina leaned forward. “But you love her.”
“Your questioning leads me to believe you are, in fact, working for the men here.” The words came out as an animalistic growl.
An indignant gasp burst from her lips. She leaped to her feet. “How dare you?”
Adam hurled the book across the room.
Georgina recoiled, the color seeping from her cheeks.
He arched a brow. “Is my assumption so far-fetched?”
Seeing her frozen, with trembling fingers gripping the edge of the table, stabbed at him like needles of guilt. Still, he could not prevent the biting edge to his words.
“You come here and learn my interests. You bring me foods that are hardly the fare of prisoners. What is the benefit in learning anything about me?” He slammed a fist down on the table and it rattled, sending the remnants of his tankard of water sloshing over the sides. “Goddamn it! Who are you? What do you want from me?”
“I am merely a loyal British subject.” She paused and gave him a lingering stare; as if that pronouncement was a monumental one that should mean something. Georgina sighed. “I only want to help you.” Something else flickered in her eyes, but was quickly gone.
“Then, for the love of Christ, free me. I have a family waiting for me. Surely that must mean something to you?”
A sadness too profound to measure filled her eyes. “It does. But would you exchange your life for mine?”
Sensing she was wavering, his raspy promise burst forth like cannon fire. “I can help you! I will take you with me.”
* * *
I will take you with me.
Despite the risks, despite Adam’s beautiful lover, Georgina’s pulse quickened at the promise he dangled before her.
Could she trust him? There had been others before him and they’d taught her that desperate men did and said desperate things. They’d bargained their families, their wealth, and all they had, to obtain their freedom. For all the help she’d given, they had left her behind.
Not one had thought her worth saving.
She studied Adam. In her breast, guilt warred with fear. He was in love. Her eyes wandered to the now-closed leather folio. Correction, he was in love with a stunning lady.
Georgina touched a curl and brushed it behind her ear.<
br />
He didn’t deserve to be a prisoner in this vile place.
“Your expression is pained.”
Georgina jumped at Mr. Markham’s softly spoken words.
“And you always do that. Flinch as if you’ve been struck.”
That was, of course, because she had been. On more occasions than she could count.
“Mr. Markham…”
“We’ve known each other for what? A month? You keep me company nearly every day. I think we can dispense with formalities.” His lips turned up in a sardonic grin.
“Formalities?”
“My name is Adam,” he clarified.
“Georgina.”
“Georgina,” he teased in an almost seductive murmur.
Her skin warmed at the sound of her name on his lips. It was as though the one word utterance tumbled off his tongue like a lover’s caress. She brushed her foolish longings aside. She’d not survived these many years by being foolish. “I mean, you should call me Georgina.”
“Will you tell me about your family?”
She hesitated. His questions were dangerous. Nay, all questions were dangerous. If he discovered the truth… Her eyes wandered to a point beyond his shoulder as she imagined a very different world than the one she’d been born to.
“My mother was a maid. She was beautiful.”
Well, the latter part was true. At least, that’s what her father had told her of the woman who’d died giving birth to her. She often wondered if that was why he hated her. If he blamed her for her mother’s death?
“She would sing to me. I would sit at her feet each night and she’d brush the tangles from my hair.” Oh, how much more beautiful this image was than the horrid truth.
“What of your father?”
She closed her eyes and summoned an idea of the father she’d always dreamed of. “He loved to tell stories. Mother and I would sit beside him and he’d tell great tales.” She paused. It was far harder to craft even false memories for the monster who’d sired her. A ruthless merchant who’d harbored a bitter animosity for everything English, including his own daughter.
Dark Deceptions Page 2